Soho Grind, Soho

So we are all looking for a way to retreat from the confines of mundanity. We are all searching for that black hole to compress our conveniently compact lives into the tiniest of specks and swirl us into a milky way of metaphysical possibility.

Cyclical surfaces seem to hold the answer.

The perfectly round base of the coffee cup, the ignited cylinder of the cigarette: nestled in the palms of our hands, clutched with trembling fingers; we tell ourselves that an alternate universe lies directly in our grasp.

Escape and addiction; vice and versa.

These circles will blur the sharp edges of reality and transcend the parameters of a polygon of existence.

With the first s—i—p, The first d..r..a..g,

FIRE

courses through our veins and fleetingly propels us into a galactic gorge of twirling planets and pirouetting asteroids. Shooting stars burn bright in our eyes, smiles float across our faces. For just a moment, we. Are. Invincible.

And then: the swift blow of the gravity that first beckoned with promise. Knocked babck to our feet, eyes dull and ringed with sleepless nights and stress no space odyssey can solve.

Your coffee is now cold.

His cigarette has burnt out.